


Bargain Buy

by extryn



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Banter, Crack, Electrocution, Extremely Dubious Consent, Light Bondage, M/M, Mind Sex, Public Humiliation, Slave Trade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23997475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extryn/pseuds/extryn
Summary: A stripe of fear cut through the Doctor’s eyes, travelling stiffly across his shoulders. ‘Don’t be absurd. You, passing up a chance to talk me to death?’Hehadmissed this one. ‘You’re hardly in a position,’ the Master hissed, not unpleasantly, ‘to make demands.’Or: Six is utterly insulted about being auctioned.
Relationships: Sixth Doctor/The Master (Ainley), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 33





	Bargain Buy

**Author's Note:**

> [Riathel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riathel) demanded that I write Six/Ainley fic. Unfortunately, they're both giant hams and lend themselves to melodramatic crack.
> 
> P.S. Come join the [D/M server](https://discord.gg/DjkvqF8) for more shenanigans, post-tumblrpocalypse fans!

'Oh,’ the Doctor harrumphed, looking rather like a gull had left a dropping on his coat, ‘It’s _you_.’

The Master’s glee extended beyond his broad smile, slithering down his neck, filling his chest, almost certainly making its way to his nethers. ‘Why, Doctor, I thought you’d be more pleased to see me.’

Lifting his chin up, as if he could somehow provide himself with more dignity were he a spare inch taller, the Doctor sniffed at him. ‘Oh, you think so, do you? Pleased indeed — I’d rather be drawn through the streets and horsewhipped than suffer what passes for _your_ company!’

The Master reached out to place a single, caressing finger beneath the Doctor’s conveniently outstretched chin. ‘That can certainly be arranged.’

A stripe of fear cut through the Doctor’s eyes, travelling stiffly across his shoulders. ‘Don’t be absurd. You, passing up a chance to talk me to death?’

He _had_ missed this one. ‘You’re hardly in a position,’ the Master hissed, not unpleasantly, ‘to make demands.’ 

With his hands lashed behind his back, the rope tethered above his head and a crude collar buckled to his neck, the Doctor looked frankly ridiculous doing so.

‘So,’ the Doctor said, immediately serious. ‘How much are they asking for me?’

The Master withdrew a small pamphlet, unfolding it with deliberate leisure. ‘Three-hundred and seventy credits.’

The Doctor, with impressive speed, flushed scarlet down to his neck. ‘ _Three hundred?_ ’ he screeched, turning a moderate number of heads, ‘Of all the—the _insolence_ , all the ignominious insults—not even _you_ could treat me so disgracefully as to—! I’m a _Time Lord_ , of unparalleled genius, a _jewel_ among these—’ he spluttered, attempting to gesture with his bound hands, ‘—these _delinquents_!’

The Master coughed, politely. ‘You do realise this lot has been advertised as pleasure slaves.’

‘Untie me at once,’ the Doctor moaned, ‘I need to lie down.’

Scenting blood, the Master splayed a hand over the soft bulk of his stomach. ‘Your physique leaves a lot to be desired in the discerning buyer. Not to mention your endless prattle, your foolhardy little escape attempts — and look here, it says that you bite.’

Mouth open, lips clutching for purchase on what would, no doubt, be a volcanic eruption of disjointed prose, the Master slid into the precious opening. ‘I was easily able to bargain you down from four-hundred and fifty.’

‘You haven’t any right to talk,’ the Doctor snapped, shoulders thrust forward — perhaps trying to headbutt him off the platform, or whatever nonsense the Doctor conjured up in the sort of mind that expressed itself with a technicolour dreamcoat, ‘Were your eyebrows stamped on sideways, along with your hair?’

The Master decided to ignore this, given he was quite proud of the renovations he’d made to the rather plain form he’d inherited. Accompanying his smirk with a deliberate sweep of his gaze down the Doctor’s body, he replied smoothly, ‘At least I’m properly endowed for the requirements of the position.’

The Doctor choked in such a way that attempted to disguise itself as a haughty cough. ‘Your vulgar, priapic proportions certainly fit the description indeed: an uncivilised _brute_. Mine is a cultured beauty,’ he continued, now melodious with pride, ‘appreciated by the aesthete.’

‘Well, then,’ the Master said. ‘I shall have to see it for myself.’ Turning, oblivious to the Doctor’s protests, he indicated to the slave driver who was anxiously attempting to keep some of the more unruly sorts in a line. ‘If you’d excuse me, I’d like to examine this one.’

‘Ah! Yes,’ the creature, a terribly short, squat thing, hurried over. Visibly nervous, he tried to steer the Master aside. ‘I promise it’s intact, very healthy, quite a bit of spark—I’m sure you could get good use out of it.’

The Doctor, squabbling in the background, again attempted to either free himself or lose his footing. It was unclear which.

The Master shook his head. ‘No, I insist.’

The slaver nodded sharply, and began to unbutton the Doctor’s muddied shirt.

Predictably, the Doctor reared back. ‘I demand that you unhand me! I have _rights_ , you know, and I will not hesitate to use force—’ 

‘I really do apologise,’ said the slaver, ‘It’s usually better behaved than this, the stress of the day—long travel, you know how it is.’

‘It! _It!_ I am a _gentleman_ ,’ the Doctor insisted, even as he was stripped, his shirt dangling off his elbows.

The Master nodded in approval. ‘Serviceable. The rest, if you would.’

Blanching, the Doctor gave a violent twist, wresting himself from the creature’s grasp. ‘This is unnecessary. I’m perfectly capable of, of _whatever_ it is you wish to— _ah!_ ’ A soft crack of electricity flickered on the Doctor’s defenceless abdomen, a cattle prod jammed up beneath his ribs. His yelp was piercing to the Master’s own ear, a spear of anguished noise lodging directly into his skull.

Abruptly silent, the Doctor watched, wary, as the slaver slid the prod back onto his belt. He flinched, and muttered, ‘Alright. Alright, do what you want with me. Just _hurry up_.’ The grating arrogance was falling off the Doctor’s voice; cowed, if not defeated, as he permitted the slaver to unfasten his trousers.

The Master snorted, finding the Doctor’s averted eyes as he did. ‘Disappointing,’ he remarked. The Doctor’s cock barely met the end of his scrotum. 

The slaver piped up, ‘Ah, but with a noisy tongue like that—and I can assure you it’s still whole—nobody’s touched this one.’

Internally, the Master wondered if this spiel _ever_ worked on a difficult sell, given the man was such a dreadful liar.

‘Oh?’ the Master said, feigning surprise. ‘Then you won’t mind if I check.’

At this, the Doctor froze, his breath coming quick through his nose. ‘Master, you wouldn’t dare. Surely not. You mustn’t.’

It was always such a fine reward; to see this Doctor’s spiny, overripe shell split open, the prized fruit within cool and oh-so-sweet. 

The slaver smiled brightly. ‘See, he’s already partly trained!’ 

It was uniquely satisfying to anticipate the Doctor’s inevitable rebuke, only for him to remain silent. His thighs were drawn together, his fury no longer enough to blanket his hurt.

The Master slid behind him, admiring the fine blonde hair gathering at his lower back, downy and soft between his buttocks. Surprisingly, his arse was a pleasant sight once deprived of those eye-searing trousers.

He pulled off a glove, finger by finger, relishing the Doctor’s tightening breaths and the pinched whine growing at their edges. Almost as amusing was the slaver’s attempts to seem unbothered, his hand fisted around the cattle prod, no doubt ready to electrocute his stock if it might make them tighten up attractively.

Dry, the Master parted the Doctor’s buttocks without preamble, and wedged a finger inside him.

So gratifying was the Doctor’s stricken, pained shriek that it, too, burst out of the Master as a rich chuckle. He held his finger in place as he turned to announce to the slaver, ‘Perfect. He’ll do nicely.’

The Doctor, either unable or unwilling to struggle, made an agitated noise between a gasp and a sob. ‘Stop,’ he mumbled, voice briefly picking up speed, ‘I demand that you—’ and again, as he wriggled, and realised the Master was still firmly inside him, ‘Please, stop.’

Sighing, content with his prize, the Master withdrew.

‘At such a price, I can’t guarantee the sale,’ the creature said, affecting some attempt at sympathy. ‘I’ll have to take the highest bid. Unless, of course, you’d like to re-negotiate.’

The Master circled to face the Doctor, casting a perspicacious eye across him. Trousers around his knees, chest bare, the Doctor glared furiously at the ground. Less obvious: the sag in his knees, the way his usually-clenched jaw lay gently parted, the Doctor’s white fingertips, his hands balled up so hard he might tear them on the ropes.

He dangled a wisp of his consciousness towards the Doctor, who seized onto it with anger, with indignation. The scrabble at his mind was clawed, harsh, but seeping through it was fear: horrified, consuming him like fire. The Doctor’s mind was a helpless little thing trapped within it; unable to fight, too exposed to hide.

The Master drew back, the soft parting of a kiss.

He released his breath, pausing over the words, crafting disappointment in the space between them. ‘I’m afraid three-seventy is my final offer. I do trust you’ll contact me if I’m successful.’


End file.
